


Dressed in Holiday Style

by ladyknightley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 13:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5336105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightley/pseuds/ladyknightley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the first of December, and Hannah Abbott has a very important task in front of her: decorating the Leaky Cauldron. She knows just who to ask for help...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressed in Holiday Style

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns all to do with Harry Potter; the title is from 'Silver Bells' (my favourite version is the one by The Supremes)

It started, as all great romances must, with a holly wreath.

Actually, it started with a holly wreath that was no longer wreath shaped and frankly had very little by way of holly attached to it. Ignoring Tom’s protestations that it was only the first of December, and besides that wreath had been working very well on the door of the pub for the past thirty seven years thank you very much, Hannah went down to the stalls at the far end of Diagon Alley and bought the largest, most obnoxious new wreath she could find. She carried it up the Alley in front of her like a shield, almost decapitated several small children and a goblin with it in doing so, then hung it on a nail on the front door of the pub. As an inspired afterthought, she added a tartan bow and conjured three shiny red baubles to dangle from the bottom. Then she invited Tom to admire her handiwork.

“It looks like a pawn shop,” he grumbled, eyeing the baubles. “And it’s too early!”

“It’s the first of December!” Hannah said. “We’ve got to start now if we want to entice the Christmas shoppers in for a drink. Think how many more customers you’ll get if we make it seem like a cosy place to relax after the hustle and bustle of the shops—it’ll be great, you’ll see.”

“I don’t like customers,” Tom said. “But I suppose we can always hope that a few of them get impaled on that monstrosity.”

Hannah had been working with him long enough now to translate. “You can always try knocking a few out with the baubles,” she suggested, and he brightened considerably.  
“It’s still only the first, though,” he said. “Merlin only knows what this place’ll look like by the twenty-fourth. A bloody forest, I’ve no doubt!”

Hannah had wanted to put a Christmas tree in the corner, but apart from that hadn’t really considered much else by way of decoration. But his comment made her think, picturing winter wonderland scenes, snowy garlands, the deepest of greens contrasted with the brightest red berries... “I shouldn’t have said that,” Tom said, eyeing her sharply and sounding remarkably like Hagrid.

* * *

 

She knew she needed a like-minded individual to share her vision, so she sent him an owl. He turned up red in the face and breathless, jumper on inside out and scarf knotted around his waist. “What’s the emergency?” he gasped, wand at the ready.

“It’s about the Christmas decorations,” she said. “I need to source as much holly as possible, a Christmas tree, and at least fifteen poinsettias. And probably a step ladder, though come to think of it, my Dad has one of those. So just the foliage, really. But I’ll need another pair of hands, and you’re the only person I could think of.”

He rose magnificently to the occasion. “We can get some holly now, if you’d like?”

“The stall in the market?” Hannah said. “They did a good wreath, but they just don’t have enough for what I want to do. And their prices are extortionate.”  
He shook his head. “No, I know somewhere far better. And it’ll be free. Can you come?” Hannah nodded. “I’ll apparate us.”

Neville stretched out his arm, and she stepped forward to take it.

* * *

  
“Where are we?” she asked at once. They were standing in what was, she presumed, a garden, filled with bushes and trees most of which were bare and covered in a hard frost. It was sunny and clear, though, and they glittered and sparkled in the morning light, still beautiful despite their barrenness.

“My house,” he said. “Well, Gran’s house. The garden. Er, obviously. But there’s a wood just over the stile down here, and it’s filled with holly. You can take as much as you want.”

“Is it yours?” she asked. She didn’t know anyone who owned a wood.

“No,” replied Neville, “it’s publically owned. But I don’t think anyone would object to you taking the holly—it’s blocking the paths, anyway, so you’d be doing them a favour clearing them. Do you want some gloves, to protect your hands?”

Hannah glanced down at her yellow woollen mittens. “Yes, please,” she said, and he led her to a shed, where he sorted out two pairs of gardening gloves and a large canvas.

“I’m glad you wrote to me,” he said, “because I wanted to show you this.” She followed him again, and he led her towards the fence at the bottom of the garden. Lining it were several thick shrubs, and as he pulled back their leaves, she gasped.

“Neville! What are they?” The flowers were shaped similarly to roses, but they were clear as cut glass and glistened more perfectly than any vase or ornament. She reached out a finger to touch one, but drew back, hesitant to damage it in anyway.

“It’s okay,” he said, “you can touch it, it will be okay. They’re frost flowers. They bloom every morning if there’s a frost, but—”

“Vanish as soon as it melts,” Hannah replied. “I know, I’ve read about them. But I’ve never seen a real one before.”

“They’re very hard to cultivate,” Neville agreed. “But they love this fence, it’s so shady. I think they might be my favourite flower.”

“Really?” Hannah asked. She was shocked by his pronouncement—not because it was unusual for a man of his age to admit to having a favourite flower, but because this was a big decision for someone who enjoyed Herbology as much as he did.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said, “but they’d definitely be in my top three. What about you?”

Hannah smiled. “I’ve always said daffodils—normal ones, not Honking. I’m not a winter person, at all. I hate it. But when you get the first daffodils, it’s like a promise, isn’t it? Spring will come, you just have to be patient.”

Neville nodded. “Plus, they’re yellow.”

She laughed. “That, too. But now I’ve seen a frost flower in the flesh...I’m tempted to rethink.”

He nodded again. “I get it,” he said, and they studied them in companionable silence for a moment.

“I hate to rush you,” he said, “but I’ve got to be in work by eleven, so we’ve only a couple of hours to get the holly.”

“Of course,” said Hannah. “I don’t want you to be late. Let’s go.”

“You can come back and see them whenever you’d like,” he promised.

“Whenever there’s a frost,” she said, and he nodded.

“I hope you like early mornings.”

* * *

  
They gathered the holly together, throwing it on to the canvas Neville had found, then apparated their bundle back to London, leaving it around the side of the pub. “Where are you going to put it?” Neville asked, as she returned his gloves.

“I’m going to use sticking charms to attach it to the top of all the curtain rails and doorways, and so on,” Hannah said. “Drape it over the top of all the bottles behind the bar, put some around the window frames, that sort of thing.”

“It should look lovely,” Neville smiled. “I’ll come by and see, after work.”

“That would be great,” Hannah replied.

“So...yeah,” Neville said. He scratched his head awkwardly. “I guess I’ll see you...soon?”

“Yes. Soon. Soon is good,” Hannah nodded. She looked away, frantically trying to think of something to say to let him know what a wonderful time she’d had with him, how grateful she was for him helping her find what she wanted, for showing her the frost flower. Every time she saw him, she felt so right, so happy and it was always perfect—until they had to part. Then it was always awkward shuffling and pregnant pauses and excruciating moments where they both went the same way to leave, or said something really daft. Once, she’d held out her hand for him to shake, like they were concluding a business deal.

“Um...thanks for the holly,” she managed, when it almost became unbearable.

“It’s no trouble,” Neville said. “It’s not even mine to be giving, so...yeah. Anyway. I have to go to work.”

“Yes, go! Leave now!” Hannah said, then realised she sounded like she wanted to be rid of him. “I mean, don’t be late because of me, or anything.”

He nodded stiffly. “Bye then!”

“See you later!”

“Yes, bye!

“Bye!”

After another few rounds of goodbyes, Neville rounded the corner onto Diagon Alley, and Hannah let out a long breath. They could _never_ get the end right.

* * *

  
“Hannah!” His excited shout made her jump, and she whirled around, fumbling with the glass she’d been holding. It almost slipped from her grasp, but quick reactions meant she caught it before it shattered on the ground. “Nicely done,” he grinned.

“I’m very fast,” she said, then added hurriedly, “I mean, not like that!” She caught his puzzled look, and realised he had no idea what she was talking about, and she mentally reversed, trying not to let her face flame. “Do you like the holly?”

“It looks very festive,” he said. “You did a great job. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop by yesterday, work was manic.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry!” she started to reassure him.

“But I’ve found something that might make it up to you,” he continued. “You said you wanted a Christmas tree? A stall’s just opened at the bottom of Diagon Alley, near the Wheezes’ shop, selling them, and there’s one would be perfect for that corner there—not too bushy, but tall. Can you come and see it now?”

Hannah checked her watch. It was five thirty, but the pub was quiet. She could slip off for ten minutes... “Tom?” she called, and the proprietor looked up from his armchair. “Can you hold the fort if I pop out for ten minutes? There’s something I need to pick up.”

He looked between her and Neville, and she tried not to blush again. “Make it five.”

She grinned. “Thanks Tom!” She followed Neville out onto Diagon Alley. “How was work?” she asked, as they skirted around the crowds doing their Christmas shopping. The road was lit by thousands of tiny lights, Christmas decorations attached to lampposts and shop windows; by their brightness, she saw Neville pull a face.

“Not great,” he said, “there’s been...well, I can’t really talk about it, but it’s not great.” She made sympathetic noises. “I’m not sure how much longer I want to stay an Auror, you know. I felt it was something that—well, it wasn’t something I _chose_ , you know?” Hannah hummed gently. “So in the new year...well, I don’t know...”

He was drifting, she realised. “What _do_ you want to do?”

“Honestly?” he asked, turning to look at her. “I’ve no idea. There’s not one specific thing that...calls to me. But I do love plants. So something to do with Herbology would be lovely.” She nodded. “When I found this tree, the one for the pub, it might sound stupid but I just felt so satisfied,” he added. “It’s just a tree, but I felt more accomplished, doing that, than I have at work for months.”

“If it all goes to pot, I’ll get you a job sorting out our beer garden,” Hannah quipped, and then turned serious. “You shouldn’t stick with something just because it’s expected of you, if it doesn’t make you happy. Lots of people—my Dad, my sister, Susan—think I’m wasting my time at the Leaky. They think I’m “just” a barmaid, that I could do so much more with my life. And maybe they’re right, but for the first time since Mum died, I’m honestly happy,” she said. “Yeah, I’m never gonna set the world on fire, so to speak. But I am doing something that I enjoy, and I’m lucky that it makes me enough money to live on to boot. Anything more than that is just greedy, right?”

He gave a small laugh. “I suppose,” he said. “And there is part of me that wants to say ‘bugger what anyone else wants, I’m going to study plants for the next fifty years’. But I feel I _should_ be doing something that’s “worthwhile”.”

Hannah watched him make air quotes, and slowed her pace. “But Nev...if it makes you happy, who’s to say it’s not worthwhile?”

He stopped then, and so did she, and she watched his face in the glow from the fairy lights. He looked young and vulnerable, but there was something in his face that made her think she’d seen him as an old man, and the thought at once made her feel full and calm, and panicked in case something happened before then. What if he got old, and she didn’t know him then? They were simultaneously close, but not—she shared things with him, and suspected he did with her, that she couldn’t tell anyone else, but at the same time, she’d never met his Grandmother, didn’t even know his middle name. He knew her deepest fears, but not her birthday. She felt like he was her best friend, but then wondered how she could feel these things when, really, they’d only been talking properly since the summer. It wasn’t even Christmas yet.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, “I mean, I know you’re right. But it just seems...” He drifted off, searching for the right words, and she waited patiently. “I just think,” he began after a moment, sounding much more sure about himself, but before he could continue, a crowd of people pushed in between them, chattering and laughing, and as soon as they’d passed, he was hailed by a market seller.

“Have you come for the tree?”  
“Yes, I’ve bought her,” Neville called back. “Come on,” he added to Hannah.

“What were you saying?” she asked, as they crossed the street.

“Nothing important,” he said quickly.

“No, Nev, it’s—”

“Look, here’s your tree!” he interrupted. It was indeed an excellent specimen, and just the right height and shape for the place she’d had in mind for it. The seller immediately started pushing it on her, and Neville stood by as she haggled down the price until both parties were satisfied. He offered to wrap it for her, but she declined, levitating it off the ground and floating it back up the road by magic, with Neville walking in front like a sort of guard of honour.

“Do you like it?” he asked, as they passed George’s shop.

“It’s perfect,” she replied at once. “And thank you for spotting it, I really do appreciate it. But Nev—what were you saying before?”

“It isn’t important,” he said, and she wished she could see his face. He sounded light-hearted and casual, but the look on his face before had troubled her. “Honestly, it’s fine. Anyway: what’re you going to do with the tree? Are you thinking modernist ice sculptures or what?”

Subtle or not, she could recognise a subject change when she heard one, so she played along, making him laugh by discussing evermore ridiculous decoration schemes. But when they got back to the Leaky, she pressed him again. “I promise you it’s okay,” he said. “I just had a bad day at work, that’s all. Kind of to be expected, in my job...” He wouldn’t meet her eye, and she couldn’t think of what to say, and they hovered awkwardly outside the door again, neither wanting to continue—or halt—the conversation. “Look, I need to get back,” he said, “I promised Gran I’d be there for dinner tonight, so I’d better dash. Do you need help getting the tree inside?”

“No thank you, I can manage,” she said, bristling slightly at the sensation of being dismissed.

“Good,” he said, “okay, good. That’s good.”

“It is,” she agreed shortly. “Thanks again for spotting it. I’ll see you soon!” She reversed inside the pub, using the tree to cover her burning face. She had the idea that if she could leave before the ending could become awkward, it wouldn’t be awkward. But his half-hearted goodbye and quick pop of disapparition soon put paid to that idea.

* * *

  
She spent the night Not Thinking about Neville Longbottom. This took up most of the time she should have been sleeping, so she arrived at work the next day feeling miserable and tired and grouchy, spending most of the day making stupid mistakes. They hadn’t argued. At least, she didn’t think so. She was annoyed with him, yes, but she didn’t really know why.

Okay. She _did_ know why.

They’d spent months growing closer and closer, spending their free time together and just existing in the same space, doing things or just talking and it was _bliss_. She’d tried to convince herself, at first, that they were just friends, that this was purely platonic, but that hadn’t lasted. She _like-_ liked him, as she and Susan used to say when they were second years, but he didn’t seem to reciprocate those feelings. But then again, he didn’t seem to _not_ reciprocate those feelings, either. She just wanted a sign, either way. And she was scared that their argument-but-not in Diagon Alley was a sign that he didn’t like her as much, or in the same way.

It scared her almost as much as the fact that he might.

She dealt with it the only way she knew how: by continuing to Not Think about him all day. In fact, she was concentrating so hard on Not Thinking about him that he actually managed to appear in the pub, at the bar before she realised who it was. “Hello, Hannah,” he said, cheerfully enough.

She responded on instinct, shrieking slightly in surprise and crashing backwards into the bottles. Fortunately, Tom had anticipated such things happening from time to time and placed an unbreakable charm on them, so all that happened was that they rattled and shook, rather than crashing to the ground. That didn’t, however, stop the entire pub—and it felt like at least half the population of magical Britain were there to witness her embarrassing display—turning to look at the sound, and Hannah herself turning deep, deep red.

“You look positively festive,” grinned Tom, who had reared his head to make sure his pub was still in one piece after the din had stopped. Hannah gave a high-pitched laugh, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole. “And so does your young man,” he added, all but cackling. Hannah risked a glance at Neville, and it made her feel both better and worse to see that he, too, had gone red—though not as fully as she had. She thought that maybe even her toes were blushing.

“How...how are you?” Neville ventured, once they had both calmed down a little.

“I’m very well, thank you,” she replied, sounding even to her own ears like she was meeting her ninety year old grandmother. “And yourself?”

“Good, good...I’m good,” he said. “I...um...had a better day at work, today,” he added.

“Oh, that is good,” Hannah replied, leaning forwards. “I—wait, that sounds sarcastic. I don’t mean it. I mean, I do mean it. I mean—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Neville insisted. “I thought about what you said, about being happy. It made me feel better. So, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said at once. “Honestly, I was worried I’d sort of, you know, overstepped, but you said—and I didn’t mean that—but I’m glad you’re feeling better, and I wouldn’t want—I mean, I know we’re not—”

She was babbling, she knew, but she couldn’t seem to stop; fortunately Tom, who seemed to have a sixth sense wherever Neville was concerned, leaned out of the kitchen again, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Order up for table six!”

“I’ve got it!” she called back. “I’ll be just a second,” she said, going to take the plates, and it was only when she was halfway to the table she realised that she’d basically told him to wait. Like he didn’t have a million other things to be doing.

He was still there when she returned, though.

He’d taken a seat at the bar, so it felt prudent to offer him a drink. “A half of Butterbeer, please, but _only_ if you’ll let me pay,” he replied, and, reluctantly, she complied. “The tree looks lovely,” he added, as she poured.

She beamed. She’d done it last night, wrapping empty boxes from their deliveries to put underneath to act as presents, and decorated it entirely in gold and silver. “I was inspired by the frost flowers,” she said, then immediately pulled a face. “Merlin, that sounds so pretentious, doesn’t it? Oooh, I was _inspired_!”

Neville laughed. “They should inspire a thousand paintings,” he said solemnly. “It does look lovely, though.” She nodded her thanks, then went to serve a rush of customers, who all took their time deciding what they wanted, umming and aahing over the drinks list. Hannah tried not to stomp her foot in impatience.

“What else are you thinking of doing?” he asked, when she eventually made it back to him. “You’ve got the holly, and the tree...what else?”

“Poinsettias,” she said. “Dotted around all over the place. There’s a big nursery near Cardiff that I’ve put an order in with; I’m going to pick them up on Saturday.”

“Dedication,” Neville said, raising his glass to her. “I thought that was your day off?”

Hannah’s cheeks glowed. “It is,” she said, “but—” And then there was another customer, and someone who needed replacement cutlery, and more drinks to carry, and all the time she was serving, she had the warmest, most pleasant feeling inside because he had memorised her schedule.

He was still waiting patiently at the bar for her when she returned and the glow intensified. “I know some people might think it’s a bit sad to come into work on your day off,” she said, “but—”

“But you love your job,” Neville said. “That’s not sad at all. It’s great.”

She picked up a glass to polish, mostly so he wouldn’t see how much her hands were shaking. “No,” she said, “well, yes, there is that. But also, I’m so excited to have somewhere to decorate again. My mother always used to go all out on Christmas—decorations would go up on the first, and the house always looked like a grotto, it was amazing. And she’d always leave some things for me and my sister to do, when we got home from school, but it was just so cosy. After she died...well, we’ve had trees and stuff. But I haven’t wanted to go all out, because it makes Daddy so sad. And Naomi, you know, my sister, she’s married now, she’s got her own house but I still live with Dad, and...well, it’s just really, really nice to be able to go Christmas crazy again.”

“Hannah,” Neville said seriously, leaning across the bar, “I’m really, really sorry about your mother.”

The tears came suddenly then, and she made a strange gulping sound, trying to pull them back and say something to acknowledge his words—it had been so long now, but it still hurt so much, and he was so kind, and she could tell he meant it, but all she could manage was a very wobbly “Thanks,” and he looked like he might say more, and then—

Another customer, more serving. She didn’t mind so much this time, because it gave her time to pull herself together, and when he waited _again_ whilst she pulled pints and mixed spirits, it made her even more determined to _do something_. “Neville,” she said, her heart beating double, triple time, “are you doing anything on Saturday?”

Neville beamed at her. “Nothing at all.”

“Would you like to come with me, to the plant nursery?”

“I would love to,” he replied.

“Good,” she said fiercely, “I will meet you here at...ten o’clock? Good. We’ll apparate over.”

“I’m—” he began, but there were yet more customers and she laughed, rolling her eyes at him, and he pulled a face in return, and she didn’t think she’d felt quite so happy in such a long, long time. She’d taken the leap and asked him, and she felt sure he knew that he had asked her on a date. Something in the air felt different between them, like they both knew whatever they had was going to change. It was scary, but it was good.

“It will be nice to actually be able to talk to you, without a million other people wanting your attention,” Neville joked, when she eventually returned to him.

“Well, when you’re as popular as I am...” she said, preening, and he laughed. She rearranged the glasses on the shelf below the bar, so she could pretend she was actually doing what she was paid to, and Tom wouldn’t get angry at her.

 

“So you’ve got the wreath, the tree, the holly, you’re going to have the poinsettias, but there’s something really obvious you’re missing,” Neville said after a moment.

“What’s that?”

“Mistletoe! Hanging above the doorway?”

“Oh, no,” she said, very quickly and firmly. “No. We’re not having that.” Neville looked puzzled. “I have enough trouble as it is, once people’ve had a few drinks, with that sort of thing. They’d use it as an excuse to harass other people, and if you add Firewhiskey into the mix...well, it wouldn’t end up being a very jolly time of year at all. _Also_ ,” she added, “you’d get people who really do want to snog each other using it as an excuse to stand there and get all hot and heavy, and they’d be blocking the doorways. It’d be terrible.”

“Well, never let it be said that I am a man who encourages doorway blockages,” Neville replied, lips twitching. “It must be a terrible fire risk.” Hannah giggled. “I just thought,” he continued, and for a millisecond she thought he looked sort of wistful, “I just thought that it might be...helpful? Sweet? Give a little bit of courage to people who wanted to make a move but maybe...hadn’t.”

“I suppose everyone’s just going to have to be a tiny bit braver, then,” Hannah said softly. “It’s that time of year, after all.”

“I suppose they are.”

* * *

  
The pub was quiet for a Saturday, particularly one so close to Christmas. Hannah supposed that people were either still shopping—it was only ten o’clock in the morning, so they probably hadn’t wanted to take a break just yet—or staying at home because of the weather. It hadn’t snowed, but it was absolutely freezing; a hard frost lay on the ground and there was none of the fun that came with snow, just a miserable sort of cold that chilled her bones. She stomped her feet and recast the heating charm on her cloak, wrapping it tighter around her. She wished Neville would hurry up.

As though she had summoned him by thinking about him—then very hurriedly pushing that image from her mind—he appeared on the other side of the road, bundled up warm in twelve different types of knitwear. Her heart jumped, and she didn’t even try to supress the huge smile spreading across her face, waving madly at him.

He beamed back and nodded his head at her, crossing the road. She noticed he was walking very oddly—he seemed to have something huge shoved up the front of his cloak, which he was gripping closed very tightly. “Hello!” he said cheerfully.

“Hi,” she replied, “how are—”

“Can we go inside?” he interrupted. “To the cold room, where you keep the food and stuff?”

“I...yes,” Hannah said, confused. “But why?”

“No time,” he said quickly, “where is it?”

“Follow me,” she replied, setting off at a fast lick. Deep in the bowels of the pub was their cold cellar, kept at freezing temperatures through a combination of natural design and magic, for food and drink that needed to be chilled; she had no idea why Neville would want to go there, least of all with such urgency, but she didn’t question it, trusting him blindly. She could hear his footsteps behind her and knew he was following her as they went down a flight of stairs and she unlocked a stone door, but neither of them spoke.  
She ushered him into the cold room, lighting her wand. Normally, this was her least favourite job: going into the freezing temperature and the dark was horrible, but today she hardly noticed. She closed the door behind him, once he was inside, and he moved over to a stone slab, where there was a small space between boxes. “Turn your wand off,” he said, and her she hesitated.

“It will be okay, I promise,” he said, and she trusted him so implicitly that she did as he asked. They weren’t plunged into total darkness: there was a small grille, right at the top of the left hand wall that let in a little light from the street, but they were mostly underground and so the light was very dimmed. Neville fiddled about with something for a moment, then stepped back from the slab, and Hannah gasped aloud.

Inside a little bell jar was one perfectly blooming frost flower. It glowed with a sort of silvery eminence, adding to the light in the room, and Hannah could see Neville’s face lit up with delight as he took in her amazement. “ _How_?” she cried, and he looked very smug. “You’re not supposed to be able to pick these! They die as soon as they’re cut— _how_?”

“I happen,” he said, “to be a bit good at Herbology.”

“A bit good!” Hannah echoed. “Neville, you’re incredible!”

Even by the light of the frost flower, she could see his blush. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “But...it’s for you.”

“For _me_?!” asked Hannah. “Are you serious? This should be on display somewhere, it’s incredible. Has one even been picked before? We should get Professor Sprout—”

“She advised me,” Neville interrupted. “I told her I wanted to cut one, and she said she’d done it once before. You have to wait until there’s been at least a couple of days of hard frost; that’s when they’re at their strongest, and it has been very cold. Then, you put a freezing charm on the jar, and keep it on for at least twenty four hours before you want to use it, then you have to cut the flower with a severing charm and get it inside the jar as quickly as you can, then keep it in a cold environment to stop it withering and dying. So I literally cut it and apparated away, straight here, and that was why we had to run to the cold cellar.”

“Wow,” Hannah said. “That’s...that’s impressive.” He gave another modest grin, and they both bent down to look at it again, faces inches from each other.

“Well, I remembered you said the other day about how much you hate coming down here, because it’s so miserable. But if the room’s always kept below freezing for the food, well, it should last for a good couple of weeks, like a normal flower would. The glow might dim a bit, but it should be fine almost until Christmas.”  
Hannah turned her head slightly. His lips were millimetres from hers. “You did all this...for me?”

“Well...yes?” he said, as though it were obvious. “You said you didn’t like the dark and the cold. And you seemed to really like the frost flowers. So...”

And then, for once, she didn’t think, or second guess herself, or wonder if he felt the same, because she knew then, knew, really, what she’d known for a long time. He loved her, and she loved him. And she straightened up, and he mirrored her, and then she leaned in and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he hesitated for half a second then put his around her waist and pulled her tight, and she kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, and it was like nothing she’d experienced before, like the most perfect moment and she loved him loved him loved him—

“We have to go,” he gasped out, tearing his lips from hers, and it took her a moment to work out where she was. What planet she was on. What her name was.

“I...what?” she asked. He didn’t mean— _couldn’t mean_ —that he didn’t want to kiss her any more. Could he?

He grinned then, and brushed away the crease between her eyebrows with his thumb. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s just, if we carry on here, we’re going to melt the frost flower.”

“That would be _awful_ ,” said Hannah, and she meant it.

“I know,” Neville said. “But I know somewhere else we can go. Somewhere warmer.”

“I’m coming,” she replied.

“Good,” Neville said, and kissed her quickly for good measure. “But—wait. What about the poinsettias?”

“They’ll wait,” said Hannah, and he laughed out loud.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing fic for years, but this is the first time I've posted on AO3 (...so I hope it's worked). I'll be posting a different Christmas one shot every other day until the 24th, which I hope you enjoy. Many (canon) pairings, characters, eras etc. Much tinsel. So festive...


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